A Long Time Coming
by katieupatree
Summary: Emma Swan and Killian Jones modern day AU. Emma and Killian are both students at The University of Storybrooke - a chance meeting at the start of term brings the two into each other's lives. Friendship could turn into true love if they give it a chance, but ghosts of the past are hard to shake for them both. Multi-chapter. Rated T. Chapter One: Drinks at The Jolly Rodger bar.


Hello!  
My apologies for the long author's note at the beginning, but I just wanted to introduce the idea of this story a little more. It's going to be set in the AU world of Storybrooke, United Kingdom – more specifically its university. Emma and Killian are both students, and quite a few of the other characters will feature in various different ways. I chose to set it in the UK because, well, that is what I know best – even after 21 years of tv and film watching, the US school system still baffles me a little. Plus, it opens up the world of adorable Killian introducing Emma to all of his favourite things about the UK throughout the chapters.

This is the first OUAT fic that I have published, and actually my first story for quite a while. I've recently finished uni and have been re-watching on Netflix, and somehow Emma and Killian inspiration just struck.

I hope that you enjoy this story and that I can do all of the beautiful characters justice! Thank you for giving it a chance.

Disclaimer: Nothing from OUAT is mine, I'm just lovingly borrowing them for a little while.

* * *

 **A LONG TIME COMING  
CHAPTER ONE**

It's edging slowly past midnight as Emma hops onto one of the barstools that have finally opened up, slipping past a rowdy group of teenage boys who probably should have stopped at least two drinks ago with as much invisibility as she can muster. Not that she can fault them – just envy, perhaps. It's the start of Fresher's Week at The University of Storybrooke, and it feels to Emma as if every student in the city is crammed into The Jolly Rodger's first club night of the new academic year. The Rodger, as everyone seems to already be lovingly calling it, is kind of cute, if that's really a word you can ever use to describe a place that literally sells vodka by the fishbowl, but it works for the kitschy pirate décor and decades old music. It's a place that fizzles with euphoria, sticky floors and pounding lights, filled far beyond comfort with people who want nothing but to drink and dance until the sun is almost up again. It's what being young and away from home for the first time should feel like, but despite her only 21 years, Emma really has no claim to either of those things anymore.

She really hadn't wanted to go out at all, but didn't know how to turn down the offer without completely alienating herself from everyone she had met so far in Storybrooke. Plus, she could hear Mary Margaret's reassuring voice running through her head even as she tried to scrape together a believable excuse, and, as ridiculous as it was considering the woman herself was over 3000 miles away, Emma just couldn't disappoint her so soon.  
Mary Margaret was the reason that Emma had been able to move to England to study, away from a world that had shattered her heart at every opportunity and into one which held the glorious promise of a completely fresh start. If, of course, Emma could find a way to allow herself such things. Mary Margaret had been a part of Emma's life for almost five years now; a court appointed counsellor who, along with her husband David, had slowly become the closest thing to family that Emma had ever known. Mary Margaret knew everything that there was to possibly know about Emma Swan – orphan, runaway, thief, lover, prisoner, and mother. The last of those still felt too raw to even think of. She had been with Emma through the darkest moments of her life, times which made Emma feel physically sick with self-hatred if she thought about them for too long, but still Mary Margaret could see the hope for something better. She had filled out the Storybrooke scholarship application without Emma even knowing, gently placing a letter of acceptance and full university funding into her lap a few months ago and making Emma promise to give herself a chance at happiness, no matter how impossible that seemed. Emma just couldn't let her down; her friendship with David and Mary Margaret was the only tether she had left, she needed more than anything to make them both proud. So she had packed up her life, the ruins of it anyway, and moved from Boston to Storybrooke, a quiet little university city somewhere to the north of London. The promise of happiness was bitter and queasy, but anything had to be better than what she had left behind.

That is how she found herself in The Rodger, at least in a roundabout way. A few of the guys she had met during their degree programme introduction afternoon had asked Emma if she wanted to join them for food and a few 'get to know you' drinks that evening. It had been unexpectedly fun; everyone was kind of filled with the nervous energy of being surrounded by strangers and the conversation had flown haphazardly between them all as they settled in for dinner at the uni pub. Thankfully nobody had questioned when Emma had quietly turned down a straw to share the cocktail pitchers that someone had ordered, instead grabbing herself a lemonade from the bar and trying not to dwell on the fun that her self-inflicted rule might cause her to miss out on.  
Emma felt an instant fondness for one of the girls, Ruby, who had slipped into the seating booth beside her and hadn't stopped talking for the first half an hour. She had what she knew Mary Margaret would describe as a 'kind spirit' – an inexplicable way of just being adored and adoring everyone right back. Ruby made Emma feel welcome, like maybe she really was doing the right thing after all. So she sat back and tried to relax into this new life of hers, at least for the afternoon, joining in as they all chattered away and shared stories of each other's lives. Nobody had to know that what Emma was telling them wasn't really her story to tell, but rather a mismatched jumble of books and films and conversations overheard on the subway; the truth would push them all away, that she knew for sure – so, she told the lies that she had practised over and over again since the day that Mary Margaret had gifted her with this new beginning. Now Emma Swan was the person she had always wanted to be; someone who had known love and friendship, someone who had played soccer on the weekends and baked cookies with her foster family, someone who had wanted to study in England as a chance to see a little more of the world. Someone who was just like everybody else. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that could leave her open to question.

Ruby was the one to convince Emma to carry on the evening and come to The Rodger with everyone, practically bouncing with Fresher's Week excitement and the thrill of not having to deal with her Granny's 'drink responsibly' lecture when she inevitably woke up at 2pm the next afternoon too hungover to move. The desire to turn down the offer had stuck in Emma's throat for longer than she should have allowed, but Mary Margaret's urgings to enjoy herself had been enough to silently force her hand.  
Emma had been genuinely having fun for the first couple of hours that they were _out_ out – she had to smile at the newest English colloquialism she had learnt, who knew that one little word could have so many meanings? Apparently their meal at the pub was just going out for the evening, but going to a club was classed as going _out_ out. But if someone asks just you out, then that is definitely a date, plus you can just _pop out_ when you're bored and feel like having a wander around the shops or whatever. Ruby had giddily thrown her arm around Emma's waist and tried to explain the whole thing, laughing as she had promised to teach Emma of all their alien ways in exchange for knowing just what the hell a marshmallow and yam casserole was. Emma had joined in with the easy teasing, putting on her best Queen's English accent and telling Ruby to "bugger off!", much to the enjoyment of everyone within earshot. Emma had never felt as light as she had in that moment, messily holding on to Ruby as everyone's laughter had carried on into the next topic of conversation as they made the most of their wait for the bar staff to make it through the already heaving number of students.

But now everyone else had gone off to dance somewhere in the sweaty mass of people, young and drunk and everything that Emma had suddenly been sharply reminded that she would never be. It seems that lying to strangers is easy, but to herself is almost impossible. She had promised everyone that she would be out to join them soon, she just needed some fresh air, but that was 45 minutes ago and the pressure in her chest still hadn't lessened. She knows that she should just call it a night and say her goodbyes, but the thought of going home to an empty flat and a pile of packing boxes up to her waist is even more pitiful than the diet coke she is currently nursing at the bar. She thinks perhaps what she really needs is a shot of something much stronger, but one wouldn't be quite enough and two will lead to far more than anyone would ever want admit to. When you've lived the life of Emma Swan, drinking just isn't for fun anymore – she knows herself too well to risk the unfamiliar bed and crushing regret that she will wake up to. So she sits, red leather jacket heated against her skin and toes kicking worriedly against the bar, willing herself to last out until she's tired enough to get home and collapse straight into sleep.

* * *

Killian checks his watch for the third time that hour, his dejected sigh swallowed by the exuberance of The Rodger; how could he still have over four hours left on his shift? Tending bar was good money, but he usually did his best to avoid it at all costs during Fresher's Week. A pleading conversation with Belle over breakfast that morning had forced him to swap shifts with her; he did, as she made certain to remind him, owe her a swap from last month, and living with a scowling Belle certainly wasn't his idea of fun - best to just give in to his friend whilst he was still ahead. At least nobody had thrown up on him yet; that in itself was truly a Storybrooke miracle.

He was just back from changing one of the ice-crates when he saw her slip onto the stool at the far end of his section, the American lass who had ordered a diet coke with words that sounded more like an apology than a soft drink almost an hour earlier, forest eyes betraying her smiled thanks as he had passed her drink over. Every ounce of him wants to fob his till off on someone else and direct his attention to her, but they are short staffed as it is and he can hardly catch a second to breathe between the orders that are mostly just slurs and points by this point.  
He doesn't think he's ever seen anyone look so beautiful, and yet so terribly out of place. He knows true sorrow when he sees it – takes one to know one, but that, he mentally scoffs, is a story best left untold. She hasn't looked up in the past quarter of an hour, watching the condensation as it spills over the lip of her glass and following its zigzag path to the damp circle that seeps into the wood of the bar. He supposes there are much worse ways for a beautiful lass to spend her night, but none that come easily to mind. She looks like someone who would kick his arse just for offering to help her, but he'd give it a damn good try anyhow. He's learnt the hard way that nobody in this world deserves the misery that they subject themselves to, and maybe it's time he put that lesson to the good of someone far more worthy than he ever was.

Killian's thoughts are annoyingly scattered by a shout from the other end of The Rodger, one of the newbies pleading for his help when a fight threatens to break out between a couple of hefty looking lads. He can't deny he'd do the same in her place, and deep down the thrill of confrontation pulses through his blood, but he thinks he could go his whole life without ever throwing another punch if he could just get a few minutes of time to send a little kindness to the lass who has captured him tonight, body and mind.

He returns just in time to see his lass, for lack of any alternative name to call her, weaving her way through the crowds to a group who drunkenly welcome her back like friends separated for half a lifetime. He's cautiously aware that the adrenaline isn't coursing nearly as roughly as it usually would be after physically dragging two wannabe rugby captains out of The Rodger, as he shakes off his tingling hands and tries to keep an eye on where she goes. He's somewhat relieved to see her bid her goodnights and make an attempt to head off alone, resisting the urge to act like a crazed stalker and rush to catch up with her as she's pulled into a sloppy hug by one of the girls. Instead, Killian promises himself that next time he won't miss the opportunity to at least say hello. He doesn't know why, but he's certain that he owes them both that much. Storybrooke isn't a big city in the grand scheme of things, and it's an even smaller uni, for now he's just going to have to settle for the hope of seeing her again soon – or perhaps suggesting that The Rodger employ him to walk a lass home if such an occasion were ever to arise again.

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To Be Continued...

Thank you very much for reading - it really is appreciated!  
Please do let me know what you thought of the first chapter if you have a moment to do so - I've got quite a few ideas of where I want to take this story, but I would love your input if you have any.

Thank you,  
Katie xx


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